


They Say Paree Has Always Been That Way

by Muccamukk



Category: Band of Brothers (TV 2001)
Genre: Canon Era, Comfort, Established Relationship, Gay Bar, M/M, Paris (City), Queer Culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 22:00:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29864685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muccamukk/pseuds/Muccamukk
Summary: Gene takes George to some of his favorite places in Paris.
Relationships: George Luz/Eugene Roe
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10
Collections: Heavy Artillery Rare Pair Exchange 2021





	They Say Paree Has Always Been That Way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrKsan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrKsan/gifts).



> Huge thanks to MercuryGray for beta reading! You're a doll. Thank you to Rilla for brainstorming.
> 
> The description of the bar is based on Le Boeuf sur le Toit in My Queer War by James Lord. It is a real place.
> 
> Title thanks to "Gay Paree" from Blake Edwards' Victor/Victoria.

This had to be the softest bed George had been in since he couldn't actually remember how long. He vaguely tried to think back through a catalog of beds he'd known, but Gene was lying beside him and making little loops and patterns out of George's dog tags, and with neither of them wearing a stitch of clothing, that was quite distracting.

If George had his way, he'd sink into this incomparably soft mattress and shut the rest of the world out: the hum of Paris traffic outside their _pension's_ window, the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the curtains, the tug of hunger reminding him that he probably was going to have to get up and eat some time, all those memories. If George could, he'd shrink the whole world down to him and Gene in this bed, and then stretch time so that it lasted forever. He kept his eyes half closed as he looked at Gene, his eyelashes blurring that beloved face so that he could hardly see the rings of exhaustion under his eyes, or how he hadn't put any weight back on since they'd gotten back from Haguenau.

"Want to go out?" Gene asked. He'd made a little pile out of the loops in the chain, and now knocked it over with a flick of his finger.

George caught Gene's hand and brought it to his lips to keep him from fidgeting. "Told you when we got here, sweetie, I ain't ever leaving this bed again."

"You got to eventually," Gene said so seriously that George almost took him for being worried.

"Not if you bring me food and wait on me hand and foot," George decided, going for a smile, but Gene shook his head and let George kiss from his palm up the inside of his arm like a Hollywood Lothario, which was the next best thing. While he had Gene's mind focused on what his lips were doing, George let his other hand slide down across the plane of Gene's stomach until it rested on the blade of his hip, fingers pointed suggestively inward. "Or I could think of something else to eat."

"Mmm," Gene said, and George saw the same thin set look that had dragged him out of a perfectly lousy barracks in Mourmellon and all the way to Paris. George had just wanted to stay in bed and sleep then, too. "I want to go out."

George had long since concluded that when Gene got that look on his face that path of least resistance was immediate and unconditional surrender. He propped himself up on his elbow and scrubbed both hands over his face. Going out meant getting dressed and probably shaving, mostly it meant getting out of bed. However, it also meant a better chance of coaxing a smile out of Gene, which had been rare on the ground lately.

"Anything for my darling," George said and gave Gene a final kiss before rolling out of bed.

Gene had clearly scouted all this out in advance, finding them a proper restaurant with access to blackmarket meat and booze and all the other goodies George hadn't seen in months. They couldn't quite hand feed each other morsels, but the tablecloth was long enough that Gene could rub the toe of his boot up George's ankle. It'd been a while since someone had tried to seduce George—he'd been the one to lure Gene into bed—and he found he didn't mind it.

"Let's go back to bed," George murmured after they'd paid the bill. He'd had a couple glasses of wine with dinner, maybe three or four, now that he thought of it, enough to give the streets of Paris a glow, blacked-out lights or not, and made the cobbled streets even more hazardous than they should have been. He slid his arm around Gene's waist, and let himself enjoy his solid warmth. Maybe he was too thin still, but they'd just eaten half a sheep, or something, and dessert besides, and they'd be in quarters for at least a month. George leaned in and kissed Gene's ear, giggling as Gene half twisted away to give him a look.

There were a lot of things in that look, but the one George actually cared about was the message loud and clear that Gene thought George was an idiot, but for some reason neither of them had precisely worked out, remained entirely fond of him. It earned Gene another kiss, at least.

"Later," Gene said. "I've got this place I wanna show you."

"Is that place down here?" George asked, sliding his hand down to Gene's ass. "'Cause I've already seen it, but wouldn't mind another look."

This time, the look had enough of an edge of impatience to it that George knew it'd serve him better to shut up and go along with whatever this was. He'd get to look at that other place later, if he did.

Gene's advance scouting continued to pay off as he led George onto the Champs-Élysées and kept their arms looped together so they didn't lose each other in the crowd. It was busier than downtown Manhattan when the fleet was in, but George had heard that he really should have seen it when the 4th Infantry rolled through the August before. A few blocks and a sidestreet later and, if anything, the press had gotten even thicker.

The place Gene had picked out looked plain enough, just a French name in block letters and a battered black door that was never closed for long. Every time it opened, a wall of raised voices and jazz burst onto the street as though sound could be a physical thing.

George had been with Gene to clubs in London and country pubs all over England, Scotland and Wales, and every USO joint that would let them in, but it'd always been more in the line of somewhere they could have a quiet drink together and at most hold hands in a dark corner. This was… something else.

"Huh," George said, watching the door from across the street. "What's this joint called anyway?"

Gene chuckled and squeezed George's arm a little tighter. "Cow on the Roof," he said. "Found it last fall."

"Why wasn't I there that time?" George asked. November seemed an entire life time ago, but he had a hard time imagining letting Gene out of his sight, let alone to find bars in Gay Paree.

"You had pneumonia, love," Gene reminded him.

"Oh right. Got in before the rush." George sighed and tried not to think about all the racking coughs that had echoed along the line, or Lipton's pallid, sweaty skin and refusal to rest.

The door to the bar opened again, letting out the jangle of Cole Porter being played badly and half a dozen ANZACs, and George dragged himself back to the moment. Gene still had his arm through George's, and they were both alive and ready to live the high life in whatever dens in iniquity Paris could provide. The world was as full of miracles as George was full of wine.

"Let's go see what kind of trouble you got up to without me."

It was George's suggestion, but Gene was still a step away, leading him though the milling crowd on the sidewalk and into the packed bar.

If George had thought the intensity of the noise from outside was a hubbub, the chaos inside sounded like Fourth of July fireworks, a Flying Fortress taking off and the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade all at once, only with a lot more alcohol. The bar was polished wood and mirrors, and more bottles than anything in rationed Paris should have, all lit by chandeliers gleaming off slicked hair, a glass in every hand, and the service and rank pins of every nation in the war. The Cole Porter was coming from an upright piano on the far side of the room, sung by a limey sailor standing on a table. Though the cigarette smoke and distance, it was hard to make out the details but George was pretty sure the kid was wearing lipstick, and he wasn't the only one. George's eyes slid past men with their faces completely done up and their military-short hair crimped into curls, past flowers in lapel buttons, very much non army-issue bright ties, bright scarves and even one feather boa, past men dancing, men holding hands, men kissing, men leading each other into mysterious back rooms.

George let out a long, low whistle and was about to say something to Gene when someone coming in behind them pushed him into the room. He was glad Gene was still hanging onto his arm, because it felt like once you lost someone in here, you'd never find them again, though you might find any number of other interesting people for your trouble.

"Let's dance," Gene yelled into his ear, and George nodded instead of speaking, allowing himself to be dragged between tiny tables and men sitting in each other's laps to a dance floor not nearly big enough for the dozen couples already swaying on it. No one was really dancing, just holding each other and swaying back and forth, not even especially on time to the music.

Gene shouldered a couple of Air Corps officers out of the way with a savageness that surprised George, and took his hands just as the singer gave up on Porter and switched to Lena Horne. His falsetto didn't quite have the range, but it got the point across, and he did sultry well enough to slow the room like drawn taffy. Gene let George take the lead, but mostly this was an excuse to hold hands and sway while staring into each other's eyes. Gene had such goddamn beautiful eyes, more so in the smoke and light of the chandlers. He loved the little lines that showed up at the corners of Gene's eyes when he smiled, in his more fanciful moments imagined living together long enough to watch them deepen into crow's feet, and then into proper wrinkles. It had been too damn long since George had gotten a real smile out of Gene.

"Kiss me," Gene said, so George leaned in and did as he was told. They'd done this before in bars in London, but so long ago that George almost forgot what it felt like not to have to sneak a kiss in a quiet moment. He'd just about perfected ducking into a dark corner and brushing his lips against Gene's so fast that no one would know, then putting up with the hard on he couldn't do anything about. Here, he could take Gene's face in his hands and cup his cheeks, and study those serious dark eyes for a long moment before deciding on just the right angle and slowly leaning in. Gene had his hands on George's hips, and tightened his hold at the same moment his breath caught and George started to move their mouths together.

George's head was still singing with all that wine, and nothing about this place felt entirely real. How could he possibly be standing in the middle of a crowded room kissing Gene for all he was worth, all to the tune of "Stormy Weather"?

The song ended, but the kiss didn't. George let himself drift and not worry about any of it besides kissing Gene until their bodies melted together and he couldn't tell which of them was holding the other up. George felt a warmth grow in his chest like he hadn't felt in months, a kind of spring thaw, an ice river cracking and rushing free. He pulled away from Gene and started to laugh giddily. The spinning, flying sensation wasn't at all like stepping out the door of a C-47. It was like the moment you pushed off the top of the big hill with a good half dozen of your brothers on the sled, and knew instantly that you were going to flip half way down, and that just made it all the better.

It was cutting loose and not having to give a shit, because everything around you was a familiar kind of trouble. George laughed again and kissed Gene, a wet smack on the corner of his mouth, before drawing back to see what he was thinking. He half expected Gene to have that thin little perplexed smile he got when he wasn't sure what George thought was funny, instead Gene was grinning back at him, almost victorious.

George shook his head and pulled Gene close to his chest, no longer even pretending to move. The wall of sound roared around them, the same as the still dancing couples buffeted against their sides, but George and Gene stood in the center of it all, like a boulder in the center of a river, holding on to each other through it all. When George stopped laughing, he let Gene lead him to the bar, where Gene elbowed enough space for both of them and ordered a couple pink gins. George looked around the joint again, shaking his head at how otherworldly the whole place was.

He had to lean over and press his lips to Gene's ear to be heard above the noise. "I don't think we're in Kansas any more."

"Hope not," Gene replied, holding onto George's collar to keep him close. They rested cheek to cheek like that for a long time, George catching snatches of conversations in half a dozen languages and half a hundred accents. All the world was there, and no one gave a shit what anyone else was doing, no one except Gene, who was still giving George that self-satisfied smile. George could feel it curving up against the side of his neck, and in the way Gene's body was as relaxed as his own.

It was impossible to talk, next to impossible to hear yourself think, so they finished their drinks and danced again, then had another drink for the road, out of a spirit of completeness, though by the time they hit the road, the narrow streets and cobblestones leading to their billet were considerably more challenging than they'd been several hours before.

George clung to Gene's arm and sang "One For My Baby" and then "Tell Me More And More," and as a special favor to Gene, he even sang on key and in his normal voice. Like an unappreciative bastard, Gene tried to shush him as they got into their _pension_ , and even clamped his hand over George's mouth and tried to wrestle him down, which would have worked better if they weren't both laughing, even before George remembered how ticklish Gene was along the bottom of his ribs.

Somehow, they made it up to their room, even if they didn't do it at all quietly. George flopped onto the bed, unwilling to take his boots off, while Gene fussed with making sure the blackout curtain was down and turning lamps on. He knelt to pull George's boots off, setting them neatly next to his own.

"I like being able to sleep without my boots," George said. He was staring fixedly at the ceiling, which seemed to be moving more than could be accounted for by Gene's shadows in the lamplight.

"Me too," Gene said. He guided George's legs onto the bed, and lay down next to him. Gene propped himself up on one elbow, and gazed down at George with that old look of amused fondness.

George groped around until he could wrap an arm around Gene's neck, but patted his cheek instead of pulling him down for a kiss. "I know I promised you a good time, but I don't think my dick'll be up to much. Or up at all."

"Already had a good time," Gene told him. He dropped his head down to rest their foreheads together. "Was good to see you laugh again, love."

"I'm always laughing," George protested, he tried to gesture, but ended up forgetting what he was trying to indicate and made a random circular gesture in the air with his free hand. "Company clown, remember?"

"Mmm," Gene said and kissed the tip of George's nose.

George was never sure when Gene had started to be able to see through him. He was pretty sure it'd been before George had noticed that Gene didn't always fall for his jokes, before George had taken getting those quiet smiles as a personal challenge, a gauntlet thrown down that only they could see. It'd certainly been before they started literally rolling in the hay back in England.

Which, now that George considered the matter, had been about this time of year.

"Hey," George said, then got distracted because Gene was smiling at him again, and he really was very beautiful, even when George was sober, which George definitely was not. "Hey," he said again. "Is it our anniversary?"

Gene glanced away, color brushing his cheekbones. "Could be."

"Happy anniversary, sweetie!" George said, giving Gene's cheek another pat. "Now, I really am sorry I'm not up to anything, but I'll make it up to ya tomorrow, huh?"

Gene pretended an evaluating look and shrugged slightly, like they'd have to see about that. "Yeah?"

"You betcha." George's thoughts drifted over all the things that Gene might like to do, though he seemed that Gene had already taken most of the initiative there. He'd taken George out and aired him like Ma with her rug on the first sunny day in spring, doing his best to shake loose all of the previous winter's darkness and grime. (The image fell apart slightly when George imagined Gene hitting him with a corn broom.) "What do ya say next year I even remember on the day of?"

For a moment, Gene went perfectly still under George's hand. So still that George would swear his heart stopped beating. "Next year?" he asked.

George tightened his hold on Gene until he pulled him down on top of him, accidentally driving most of the air out of George's lungs in the process. "Yeah," George said. "Next year. And every year after that. As long as you like."

After that, Gene remembered he had a sure way to shut George up, and they went with that.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos totally make my day, and I very much appreciate comments of every length, percentage of emoji, and level of coherency.


End file.
